


Moment of Weakness

by vehlr



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bedside Vigils, Feelings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-04-27 23:47:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5069575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vehlr/pseuds/vehlr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian feels useless. His hand wraps around Rhys’s gently. It was ridiculous, quite frankly, that even that small action could feel so important. The freedom to do this one thing was still terrifying and wonderful. He just wishes that Rhys was awake to appreciate it too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moment of Weakness

Dorian is _furious_.

Oh, he is _quite_ sure that Rhys had every _intention_ of staying perfectly healthy during his “quick trip” to the Exalted Plains. He is _extremely_ sure that the bogs that housed the wyvern he hunted for Madame de Fer were usually lovely and hospitable and not at _all_ plague-inducing horrors that should be avoided at all costs. He is _absolutely_ sure that Rhys had no idea that the illness he had contracted from those damned wyvern was akin to a death sentence in even the _strongest_ of people.

But the one thing Dorian is certain about is that Rhys Lavellan has never looked so _small_ , lying prone on the bed as the healers leave him to rest. That is all we can do now, they say in hushed tones. Let him rest, and wait.

*

On the first day of the Inquisitor’s recovery, Dorian feels useless. His hand wraps around Rhys’s gently. It was ridiculous, quite frankly, that even that small action could feel so important. The freedom to do this one thing was still terrifying and wonderful. He just wishes that Rhys was awake to appreciate it too.

He had not anticipated this… feeling.

The tight coil in his chest that squeezes whenever Rhys’s breathing hitches. The leaden weight in his stomach that will not move, will not ease. The worry that gnaws, unwanted. He hates it all, hates that once more his heart is at the mercy of sickness.

At least with Felix he had only his friend to lose. Here…

“Sparkler?”

His hand jerks back, his breath catching in his throat. “Come to read him a bedtime story, Varric? I’m afraid he’s already asleep.” The quip comes easily, and Varric is kind enough not to mention the waver in Dorian’s voice.

“Yeah, the Kid mentioned things had gone south.” From the doorway, the dwarf offers an encouraging smile. “You should catch some sleep. Need to look your best when he wakes up.”

“I -” He stops himself, and the other man understands.

“I’ll get a cot sent up here, but you better use it. I’m not gonna be the one to explain to his Inquisitorialness why you’re sick too.”

“Varric?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.” His voice is barely above a whisper, but Varric hears it, nodding before heading off to make good on his word.

*

On the second day of the Inquisitor’s recovery, Cassandra brings Dorian some fresh robes and Nevarran tea. Dorian breathes in the spicy aroma, letting it brew as he changes. His lover does not stir at the scent, but he rather fancies a change in his pallor.

On the third day of the Inquisitor’s recovery, Solas brings Dorian a mixture of herbs, a bitter scent but the man assures him it is meant to be restorative. Dorian pulls a face as he applies it to Rhys’s chest. His lover does not flinch from the cold fingers, but he rather fancies his heart beats a little quicker under his palm.

On the fourth day of the Inquisitor’s recovery, Varric brings Dorian a book - a gift, he explains, from one Dalish pariah to another. Dorian opens it to find, in very neat script, the stories and songs of the Elvhenan as recalled by the First of Clan Sabrae. His lover does not respond to the softly-spoken words, but he rather fancies his face relaxes somewhat.

On the fifth day of the Inquisitor’s recovery, Cole sits at the end of Dorian’s cot before the mage awakens, humming a soft song that he does not recognise. Dorian lets the boy-spirit’s song wash over him - he wonders, idly, if it is one of the songs from Merrill’s book. His lover does not stir, does not move.

“He feels you,” Cole says softly. “He knows you’re here.”

Dorian does not cry, but something in his chest shifts uncomfortably.

*

Vivienne comes to him at dusk on the seventh day.

“My dear,” she murmurs, one hand light on Rhys’s chest. “You darling fool.”

Dorian does not speak, does not dare let his tongue loose on the woman. But his posture must say it all, for she stiffens ever so slightly at the sight of him.

“If you knew… you would understand.”

He remains silent, but follows as she beckons him onto the balcony.

“I am as you are now - in limbo, awaiting a miracle for a lover I cannot bear to lose.” Her words are clipped, but in the tightness of her fists he sees the truth of them. “And the heart of the wyvern may grant me more time. I did not tell the Inquisitor of this. Perhaps I should have. But it matters little now - I will tell him when he awakens.”

“When?” Dorian’s voice cracks, and she fixes him with a look - not quite soft, but not her usual steely gaze.

“Of _course_ , dear. He will not succumb to _this_ , of all things.”

*

On the tenth day of the Inquisitor’s recovery, Cullen brings a chessboard and conversation, and between the rook’s gambit and Dorian’s pitiful attempt to counter, Rhys coughs.

A lot.

As Cullen clears the board and Dorian scrambles for the jug of water, the Inquisitor finally wakes up.

“ _Ngh_ ,” he wheezes.

“Don’t speak.” Dorian perches on the edge of his bed, holding the goblet up for the man to drink from. “Easy, easy.”

He gulps, almost choking again, before leaning heavily against the pillows. “Hello,” he says finally. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

“You stupid man,” Dorian breathes, “ _stupid_ selfless man.” His hands cup Rhys’s face tenderly, smile soft. “Can’t you just _stop_ caring about them all?”

“You know me, Dorian,” he murmurs, smiling as his hand comes up to brush the mage’s hair.

“I do.” He presses a soft kiss to his forehead. “Damn you, I do.”

“I’m sorry for worrying you.”

“Oh, you will be, I assure you. I have a list of ways you can make it up to me.”

Rhys laughs weakly. “Do tell.”

“Later.” Dorian shifts, curling around the man carefully as he presses himself into the crook of his body. “I am, for now, simply glad that you are well enough for me to berate.”

His chest eases, finally, _finally_ , his stomach light, his heart at ease.


End file.
